06/18/01See
you, see me... see it together. That's the way it should be...

Except
for the buzzing laser boring into my right eyeball, I was actually feeling
pretty good about the whole thing.

The
pre-LASIK appointment was exciting. Every time I was asked to take off
my glasses, the huge paeons to blindness that weighed down my face and
esteem, I couldn't help but think that I was only a day away from chucking
them for good. I watched a video that outlined the risks of the procedure.
That was okay: I'd heard these risks for nearly a year and had already
dealt with those fears.

The
morning of the surgery, I went to a birthday breakfast for my friend
Gissela. There was lots of coffee and breakfast tacos from Curra's.
By the 11 a.m. appointment, I was wired and ready to go. My fear had
vanished. I was ready.

Rebecca,
my mom and my brother were there, waiting with me after we arrived a
little late. Drops were put into my eyes for dilation and as I tried
to read a few articles in Equire, my vision began to fuzz out until
the text became illegible. I laid my head back on the leather waiting
room couch. A few minutes later, I was called in.

My
mom, who would probaby have fainted at the sight of a laser cooking
her son's eyeballs, stayed behind. Rebecca came with me to watch and
offer support.

Good doctor; infernal machine.

I
took my valium and the tylenols from the tiny envelope. The valium kicked
in quickly, and suddenly, I was worry free and relaxed beyond belief.
I remember telling the nurse that I could see why housewives in the
50s got addicted to valium. Hell, I wanted to start a habit myself.
It was a floaty, worry-free zone. I had no problems, not even the impending
surgery.

Part
of the pre-surgery was having my pupils marked. Doctor Wong used some
sort of pencil that he poked me in the eyeballs with. Each time he did
it, the world turned fish-eye for a moment at the moment of contact,
like a PhotoShop effect.

When
the sugery began, with the sideway slice of the topmost layer of skin
on my right eye, I felt pressure. It lasted just a few seconds. I was
breathing very deeply and suddenly feeling something I hadn't expected:
Pain. I grabbed a hand next to me. I didn't know if it was a nurse's
or Rebecca, but I gripped tightly.

Then,
the lasering began.

It
sounded like electric buzzing, the static chatter of current meeting
and separating. There was pain. Not burning, not sharp pain. Just a
dull hurt that never seemed to end. The spooky female computer voice
announced how long was left, "One minute," it announced, like
impending death. I tensed, gripping the hand more tightly. I felt a
thick ring I recognized as Rebecca's. I tried not to grab so hard, but
I couldn't help it. This was worse than I'd imagined. And I could smell
the cauterization. It was exactly how you'd think it would smell: Like
burning hair or flesh. That was actually the worst part.

The
voice counted down. I waited. It finally ended and I relaxed.

The
next eye wasn't nearly as bad, but I tensed up and breathed hard again.
It didn't seem to take at long. When it was finished, I sat up slowly.
Everything was milky. It hurt to open my eyes. Everything seemed to
bright and I just wanted my eyes closed.

I
was out of it by this point -- The pain and the valium combining to
make me groggy. I vaguely could tell that a Polaroid was being taken.
I smiled weakly, in what was later revealed to be the Single Worst Photo
Every Taken of Me. My eyes were swollen slits. My smile looked as it
it were being pulled by lethargic hooks. It wasn't pretty.

The
drive home I barely remember. My brother wanted to hear Radiohead's
new CD, but I can only remember one song. I recall that the trip seemed
to take far too long. Every time I tried to open my eyes, I could see
blurs and shapes of passing road, but the pain was too intense. I couldn't
keep my eyes open. I wanted to open them, because keeping my eyes closed,
my head kept lolling around and I was getting nauseous. Every few seconds,
my eyes would open, attempting to figure out where we were and how close
to home we were. It was never close enough. I wanted my bed. I wanted
darkness.

At
home, I laid down. I could already see shapes and outlines. There was
never blindness. But it hurt to keep my eyes open.

I
laid down, rested. Eye shields were taped to my face to keep me from
rubbing my eyelids. Then I slept. I could already start to see things.
I was healing.

Four
hours later, I woke up. I was a little blurry still, but feeling good
enought to get up, eat and watch some TV. I could see the clock on top
of the TV. My eyes stung a bit, but drops helped that. In another hour,
I was able to make out text on the screen. An hour after that, I felt
good enought to ride along for a trip to the video store. By the next
morning, I could see street signs and drive.

And
it's been like that every day. Some new miracle of vision returns (I
can use the computer! I can drive at night! I can read the newspaper!).
At my follow-up appointment, Dr. Wong said the surgery went flawlessly.
But that's still no guarantee I'll have perfect vision, even after the
days and weeks it takes to see the full benefit of the operation.

I'll
have to wait and see. You know? Wait? And see? That's funny, right there
because... (sigh)... never mind.

I'm
pretty amazed though. Even with the added pain (it turns out that I
missed a Tylenol in the envelope, so I was only enjoying two thirds
of the pain medication that I should have been using during the operation.
Lucky me.) I still feel the LASIK was completely worth the money and
the anxiety. It was worth the momentary pain and the struggle in the
hours and day or two that followed to readjust to reading and doing
things I take for granted, like reading e-mail and driving.

Every
day, I wake up, wondering if my eyesight has improved and how much.
I drove for the first time at night Sunday from a Father's Day trip
to San Antonio. I have the dreaded "Halo" side effect. Light,
specifically street lights and oncoming headlights, have a large fuzzy
halo around them. Think of what lights look like when you have tears
in your eyes. All bright lights at night look that way to me now.

That's
not a side effect I expect to go away. One of the things about LASIK,
especially for someone with nearsightedness as bad as mine was, is the
halos. I may have them forever. And that's an adjustment. For the rest
of my life, it would seem, lights won't just be lights. They'll be circular
ghosts, angry glowing eyes. Will I remember 10 years from now what it
was like to look at a streetlight and not see green fuzzy circles? Does
it matter?

It's
an adjustment, this new eyesight thing. I can see the clock across the
room, but I can't quick make out the numbers next to the avenue name
on that street sign. I can read the text, but the footnote is a little
fuzzy.

Will
I need a second surgery in three months? Probably not. Will I have 20/20
vision after all this? Maybe not.

But
it's still such a far distance from the blind, crippled vision I've
had most of my life. It's still a little miracle, a wonder, a gift.

The
halos, the temporary (I hope) fuzziness, the stinging and the regimen
of drops I have to keep putitng in... It's all worth it, I think. I
can see. I can wake up, and look at the tapestry across the room, and
it's not just a black and blue fuzzy cloud. It's shapes and thread.
It's real.

The
world is more real now, unassisted.

And
I'm looking at everything I can, trying to notice all the things I might
not have bothered with before.